Part 9 (1/2)

”I wish to say, John,” she began, before any one else had time to speak, ”that I've said _nothing_ to mother or d.i.c.k, and I think it would be better if you didn't. I can attend to the case if you leave it to me.”

”Like you,” said John shortly. ”Who told you she is a 'case.' Mother,”

he went on addressing that gentle knitter by the fire, ”I want you to come downstairs.”

”She shall do nothing of the kind!” cried Edith, and as Mrs. Sedyard looked interrogatively from one to another of her children, her daughter swept on. ”John must be crazy, I saw him come in with a--a person--who never ought to be in a house like this.”

”I'd like to know why not?” stormed John. ”You don't know a thing about her. _I_ don't know much for that matter, but when I came across her down on Union Square, just turned out of a shop where she had been working, mother, I made up my mind that I would bring her right straight home, and that Edith would be decent to her. You can see that Edith does not intend to be.”

”But my dear boy,” faltered Mrs. Sedyard, ”was not that a very reckless thing to do? I know of an inst.i.tution where you could send her.”

”Oh! yes, yes,” said John. ”And I suppose I might have handed her over to a policeman,” he added, thinking of his attempt in this direction, ”but I didn't. The sight of her so gentle and uncomplaining in that awful situation at this time of general rejoicing was too much for me.”

He felt this to be so fine a flight and its effect upon d.i.c.k was so remarkable, that he went on in a voice, as his mother always remembered, ”that positively trembled at times.”

”How was I, a man strong and well-dowered, to pa.s.s heartlessly by like the Good Samaritan--”

”There's something wrong with that,” d.i.c.k interposed.

But John was not to be deflected. ”What, mother, would you have thought of your son if he left that beautiful figure--for she is beautiful--”

”You don't say,” said d.i.c.k.

”To be buffeted by the waves of 'dead man's curve?'”

”Oh, how awful!” murmured the old lady. ”How _perfectly_ dreadful.”

It was at this point that d.i.c.k Van Plank unostentatiously left the room.

”But I didn't do it, mother,” cried John, thumping his chest and anxious to make his full effect before the return of an enlightened and possibly enlightening d.i.c.k. ”No, I thought of this big house, with only us three in it, and I said 'I'll bring her home.' Edith will love her. Edith will give her friends.h.i.+p, advice, guidance. She will even give her something to wear instead of the unsuitable things she has on. And what do I find?” He paused and looked around dramatically and warningly as d.i.c.k, with a beautified grin, returned. ”Does Edith open her heart to her?

No. Does Edith open her arms to her? No. All that Edith opens to her is the door which leads--who can tell where, whither?”

”I can tell,” said d.i.c.k, ”it leads right straight to my little diggings.

If Edith throws her out, I'll take her in.”

”Oh, n.o.ble, n.o.ble man,” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed John remembering the emotional woman, ”but ah! that must not be. I took her hand in mine--by the way, did I tell you, she has beautiful little hands, not at all what I should have expected.”

”You did not,” said d.i.c.k. ”And now that'll be about all from you. You're just about through.”

”My opinion is,” said Edith darkly, ”that you are both either crazy or worse.”

”Go down and see her for yourself,” urged d.i.c.k, ”so quiet, so reserved--hus.h.!.+ hark! she's coming up. Now be nice to her whatever you feel! I'll be taking her away in a minute or two.”

But it was Mary Van Plank who came in. Mary, all blooming and glowing from the cold.

”Who's that in the reception-room?” she asked when the greetings were over and she was warming her slender hands before the fire. ”She's the prettiest dear. She was standing at the window and she smiled so sweetly at me as I came up the steps.”

John looked at d.i.c.k.